


Putting Things Back In Order

by kingsmn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Kind of a Catch-Me-If-You-Can AU, M/M, Mother Hen Gaby, Post-Canon, Rating May Change, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:07:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsmn/pseuds/kingsmn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once they notice Solo left, all hell breaks loose. There is no farewell or explanation and Illya won’t have any of that.<br/>This marks the beginning of a chase across country borders and against the CIA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the second Man from U.N.C.L.E. fanfiction I have started writing in less than a week. I kept thinking about what might happen if Napoleon would try to run away again and thus began my descent further down into Napollya hell.

 

Napoleon Solo leaves on a cold December morning. Too early in the day for anyone to be awake yet. Too early for anyone to notice him packing his bags and slipping out of the hotel. The air is crispy on his bare hands when the snow begins to fall. He doesn’t look back or say goodbye. He has done this before. And this time no force of nature or luck will bring him back.

Someone else will take care of the bill for his room just as someone else will take his place, he thinks. He cannot stop a shiver running down his spine when he considers the debts that will remain unpaid.

The south it is then. A good wine in his hand, the sun on his skin, a place where no one knows his name.

But the last mission has taken its toll on him. He is slower than he has originally planned, the strain on his left leg making it difficult to put one foot in front of the other. His heartbeat too loud in his ears.

The sun starts rising just when he reaches the boarders of town and starts to look for a lift.

 

-

 

“He, _what_?!” Illya yells, when Waverly tells them about Solo over the phone, his voice tense. Illya can almost picture the frown on their boss’s face, see him slump his shoulders and sigh into the telephone receiver. It makes the fury inside his belly sprout like rambling weeds.

“Calm down, Illya. We know nothing for sure just yet.” Gaby says, taking the handset away from him and motioning for him to take a seat, her eyes worriedly travelling down to his shaking fists.

The impulse to take hold of the phone and smash it against the next wall, to watch it fall to one hundred little pieces, to make it all go away, is so strong that Illya has to hold onto the desk beside him and steady his breathing. He does not notice the dents his fingers leave in the dark wood until much later.  

“When?” Is all Gaby asks next, her lips turning into a thin line. There is a pause and then she repeats for Illya to hear it too: “This morning?” 

Illya had come to Gaby’s room late – it is almost noon –, leaving her to sleep it off and never even trying to knock on Solo’s door first, almost expecting to find him on the couch of her suite anyway. The last night, after having successfully returned to their base, adrenaline still coursing through their veins, Solo had excused himself, leaving their little celebration earlier than usual. He had blamed it on the cut on his lower leg. Illya should have known better. Their enemy had used an old-fashioned rapier; the wound shouldn’t have been bad enough to stop Solo from taking up the offer for a glass of scotch, more so if it hurt him as much as he pretended.

“How do you know? It’s not the first time…” She argues to no avail. Waverly interrupts her before she can even finish her sentence. 

Funny enough Gaby is right, this isn’t the first time Solo had left without telling them about it. There were missions he’d try to solve single-handedly and there were times when he had seen Solo chase after men in tailored suits and women dressed in flowing robes, only to return in disarray hours, sometimes a day later, winking at Illya seductively, making his blood pressure rise.   

Never before has it been reason enough for Waverly to call them, though.

“Do you think he planned it?” He hears Gaby ask and she innocently raises her eyebrows at Illya when his fist hits the desk, loud enough for the guests in their neighbouring rooms to hear.  

It hadn’t been just last night.

He remembers Solo growing distant over the last few days – maybe even weeks –, his smile fading more quickly and his phenomenally inconvenient comments becoming scarcer. A pain in the arse he was, but over the time Illya has gotten so used to Solo’s constant annoyances that he barely acknowledged it when they went missing.

“Now what?” Gaby continues, matter-of-factly.  

Another minute passes and Illya is tired of watching Gaby nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other and patiently listening to Waverly’s words.     

Patience has never been one of Illya’s strengths. So he stops breathing and starts counting.  

He has to stop at 192.

If ever Illya thought of Solo as a trickster, even worse, a filthy liar, that thought reinforces the moment Gaby sets down the receiver and turns towards him, “Illya, he’s gone for good,” and then pauses to let it sink in, “and we need to find him.”

“Why?” He asks incredulously. It is Solo’s choice. There is absolutely no reason to follow him. How could she even suggest it?    

“So here’s a thing…” Gaby tries to explain and fully turns towards him, stepping closer. She tries to calm him down, tries to clasp his hands in hers, but Illya is too deep in thought. None of this manages to reach him.

The worst thing is that he feels an inexplicable pull in his chest, white noise drowning out the world, as if he has been wading into ice-cold water. The rage he just felt turning into something completely new.     

 “Do I have to slap you first?” Gaby snaps.

“What…?” He feels dumbfounded, but manages to decline, shaking his head.

“Are you listening now?”

He nods.

“Napoleon is gone and we need to get him back. Understood?” She does not wait for him to answer, or disagree “we don’t know where he’s going, or why, but if we don’t get to him first the CIA will. And I think you can imagine what they will do to him.” She pauses. “Illya?”  

It does not take more than a few long strides for him to cross the room and he starts to search for his suitcase. “Where is it?” His voice sounds frantic in his own ears and if a chair or two get thrown out of his way no one can blame him.

“Waverly said we’re running out of time.” She interrupts him, trying to sound calm and failing miserably as Illya glances back to her. 

Illya knows exactly how the CIA works. They have their ways, just like the KGB does. And when it comes to betrayal they are all the same.

“What do you think I am doing here?”

He finds his suitcase underneath the bed, rummaging in it until he finds what he was looking for. There are more places than shoe soles to leave trackers in. It does not take long for him to set up his device on the soft matrass, shoving the bedspread and a mass of pillows out of the way.

“If I got the ring, what did you get for Napoleon?” Gaby’s laugh startles him out of his tension and together they are watching the green dot rhythmically appear and disappear on the display’s screen.

They have to get to Solo before them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby and Illya pursue a lead. A mysterious stranger shows up. Napoleon is feeling manpain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Here it is! Thank you for all the lovely comments on the previous chapter and please enjoy!

It proves itself all too easy to find the tracker Illya had placed on Solo.

After packing everything in a hurry and checking out, they had hijacked an unobtrusive car – working with a thief for the past two years had its advantages after all – and followed the devices’ signs. Gaby had been driving and Illya barking out directions like an animal, struggling against its leash, trying to catch bait that was dangling right in front of his nose but just out of reach. He is glad that – for once – Gaby preferred not to comment.

The green light on Illya’s screen, blinking more rapidly by the second, while bearing an almost worrying resemblance to Illya’s pulse, leads them to a dumpster, just a few minutes from the last gas station in the outskirts of Munich.

They find one of Solo’s empty bags amongst rotting leftovers, half-empty bottles and rumpled, outdated newspapers, and with it all three of his trackers.

“How very thoughtful, don’t you think?” Gaby remarks, keeping a safe distance from the pile of trash that had accumulated just besides Illya’s – now dirty – shoes. “What now?”

He frowns, pocketing the gadgets and leaving Solo’s leather-bag behind like a dirty, old rug.

It takes him a moment to process Gaby’s question, frozen into place, as if a spell had been cast on him.

“You said it,” He scoffs, before she can grow impatient, “we need to go after Solo.”

In one swift movement he turns around and walks towards the car, keeping his strides short enough for Gaby to follow without having to race after him.

“So how does our plan B sound?” She says, not having to give voice to what they were both thinking. Solo is too experienced to fall for any trackers if he does not intend for them to find him, Illya should have known better than that. And suddenly the image of Solo complacently laughing at him, the smile reaching his eyes and lighting them up like fireworks, crosses Illya’s mind and he tries to blink it away as quickly as possible.

He has to clear his throat before being able to speak again. “We don’t need trackers to follow his trail.” And neither will Sanders, it occurs to him and with that he chases every thought of the man himself out of his head.

“What, do you just want to ask every person on the way who could have possibly seen him?” Gaby asks incredulously, tugging at her gloves and glancing at their Audi, giddy to take the wheel and drive after a non-existing lead.

“Nothing of the sort.” He replies, opening the door to the driver seat for her and absentmindedly tapping his fingers on the cold metal.

There had been a time when Illya did not understand the concept of trackers. A time when he was travelling through a much colder, feral winter, waiting for his target to leave just a single sign. A blurred footprint in the freezing mud, the scent of a dying fire, or a drop of blood, contrasting with the impeccable layer of fresh snow, would have been enough. But even back then the most important thing had always been to see things from the other’s perspective, to be able to follow them.

“Just think like Solo for a second.” He suggests. At his words they grimace, look at each other and almost burst into laughter. He sees the ‘no, thank you very much’ written all across Gaby’s features but he won’t let up, “I’m serious. Where do you think he’d be going?”

“Well, besides getting as far away as quickly as possible, before I can drag his sorry ass back to where it belongs…” Gaby says, her voice coated with sugar, until she notices Illya staring, and goes into a rigid sitting posture. “He’ll obviously try to breach the CIA’s operating radius.”

“Exactly.” Illya agrees.

Solo probably saved up enough money over time to allow himself a luxurious life, seeking amusement at exquisitely tasteful masquerades, retiring early with a girl in each arm and if he is ever running out of his truffle or caviar provisions, he could always go back into art theft.

“He’ll try to get out of Europe.” Gaby states, watching Illya walk around the car and having his seat beside her before continuing, “The East then? No, maybe Africa?”

“And how will he get there?” He encourages her to think one step further, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“He wouldn’t have stolen any car just yet. And no public transportation either. Too easy to spot.” She muses. “Across France and Spain then. He’ll try to go by ferry and settle for Morocco?”

“Possibly our best chance.” It is easy to go along with Gaby’s theory and he feels the tension that had built up since the phone call vanish into thin air, leaving him weak through and through when he melts into the passenger seat.

“We’ve been through worse.” She says more softly and starts the engine, the internal heater springing into action with a convulsive cough and by that muting his faint agreement.

For the first time he realizes that she must be feeling just as betrayed. Illya reddens and is about to apologize – as if it was his fault – but ends up shaking his head and slumping down another inch into his seat.

In an afterthought he tries to stretch his legs, looking for a more comfortable position and mumbles something about how they should have picked a different car, while checking the rear-view mirror.

The back of a man catches his eye. He notices a heather grey coat, as he is bending down to pick up Solo’s holdall from where Illya has left it behind. But before he can get a glimpse of the man’s face, their car has turned around the next corner and Gaby steps on the gas pedal, making the engine roar.

 

-

 

He waves at the driver, an overly friendly smile on his face and watches the car depart, tugging up his collar and tightening the grip around his bags.

Have they started looking for him yet? Probably. But did he leave any clues? No. He is sure of it, no matter what paranoid thoughts might surface, and try to tell him otherwise.

Solo wanted to serve his country, but he’d always been better suited to be a soldier, not a secret agent, more of an art thief than an art historian, and not so much an aiding hand as an exemplary troublemaker. But he has given his all.  
Or maybe he is just lying to himself, he reckons bitterly. He surely could have gone on with this life for a while, at least until he got wounded rather badly, died in another’s arms - or worse, had to spend the rest of his days in prison. And Solo isn’t naïve enough to believe that either Waverly or Sanders would let him go after having served his time.

But he has made his decision and none of those thoughts would put more miles between him and his pursuers.

It almost physically pains him when he has to change into a simple pair of black pants and discard his three piece suit, the tie and his cufflinks before charming his way into a newly-wed couple’s back seat.

He excuses his limp by telling them about an accident he’s had during his adventurous mountaineering in the Alps and proceeds to half-heartedly listen to them describing their route through southern Europe and how they would someday love to do a road-trip through America, after having identified his accent. Solo is trying to make polite suggestions on which sights to visit first on their way, but spends most of the time listening to their endless rambling and awkward laughter, holding on to his luggage that wouldn’t fit in the trunk as if his life depends on it, until he cannot keep his eyes open any longer and falls asleep.

It isn’t very difficult to picture two entirely different people sitting in the front, bickering over absurdities like where to stop for lunch, how to infiltrate the next warehouse or who to divert their next mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm moving to England in about a week, so there probably won't be any update before that...


End file.
